Don't Talk
by Miss Information
Summary: We all have to compromise, at least once in our lives. But how much is too much to compromise? The musings of Jean Grey in a oneshot, featuring mild smut and a rare moment between Jean and Rogue. Not femslash!


Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.

A/N: I don't know where this came from. I do know, however, that the line that pops up so often throughout this story is from the Uncanny X-Men issue where Nightcrawler's heritage is explained and we catch a glimpse of a more vulnerable Mystique. However, this little one-shot has nothing to do with either of them.

Compromise is a part of life. But how far is too far, when you compromise on love?

Love it or shove it?

---

**Don't Talk**

---

She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes dull as his hands moved over her slowly. His eyes, closed tightly, couldn't see her listless expression. Once, more than anything, she would have loved to be able to see the color of his eyes. Once.

It felt like so long ago...

"Jean..." he whispered into the crook of her neck.

"Don't talk," she hushed back. "Just..."

Just what?

She'd envisioned finishing that sentence so many times, but she never did. Each finish was always different, too. She wanted to tell him to get off of her. She wanted to tell him to leave her alone. She wanted to tell him that she didn't love him and she never would. She wanted to tell him that she was thinking of someone else...that she was _with_ someone else when they were together. It was technically true, too. Her body may have been in bed with Scott Summers, but her mind was far from joining it. As she moaned and arched up into his gentle touch, she was thinking of other hands; when he pressed hot kisses to her neck and jaw, she was imagining other lips.

But she wouldn't tell him. It would kill him to know.

And what was the point, besides? If she threw over what she had with Scott...well, what more was there? It was abundantly clear that the hands she dreamed of would never touch her. The lips she followed with her eyes would never press against hers. The man she wanted would never press down upon her, trapping her under his weight as he stroked a beautiful crescendo in both of them. It would never happen...

...For so many reasons.

Firstly, there was the barrier of age.

Secondly, there was the barrier of rank.

Thirdly, there was the barrier of physical capability.

The man she wanted wouldn't, shouldn't, couldn't touch her in any of the ways she wanted him to. It was a sad state, to be both thwarted by the body and the mind. If the spirit had been willing, though the flesh remained weak, she would have been content to the end of days. As things stood, however, he would never - not even fleetingly - consider her in such a light. Because he was her teacher; he was a man of straight-and-narrow ethics. He was decades her senior and too socially-minded to pursue a woman who was over fifty years his junior. Because he was wheelchair-bound, and refused - through some misguided nobility that told him that a broken body was nothing more than a liability - to connect himself to someone who still had the chance of the whole, freshness of youth.

None of these reasons held with her.

Her eyes fluttered closed as the man over her began to trail kisses over her collarbone, his touch becoming more insistent. With her eyes closed, she could imagine the touch of other lips, the weight of another body. She could pretend that the man she held secret in her heart was able to touch her in the ways that she wished he could and quietly knew that he was capable of.

If only he didn't have such a low opinion of his physical worth. If only he didn't have such stringent morals. If only he didn't...

"God, Jean..."

Her eyes opened again, staring up at the white ceiling in irritation. "Don't talk," she whispered again. "Just..."

"..._Yes_."

Mindless obedience couldn't keep her. Blind adoration was boring. She wanted a man who challenged her mind, not just one who worshiped her body. She wanted a man who sought to find the layers beneath the sweet exterior she wore. She wanted someone who believed in her depth and who wanted to study it.

The man above her could give her none of these things.

The man on her mind could, but wouldn't.

She closed her eyes again and tried to ignore her thoughts. It was useless.

She knew Scott deserved a woman who could be there, with him, whenever he needed her - like now. He deserved someone who was _there_ when he was touching her. He deserved better than what she could give him.

But he wanted her.

But he didn't know what she was doing, where her mind was, when he touched her.

She should leave him.

But she wouldn't. He was the closest thing she'd ever found to what she wanted, aside from the man on her mind. And he loved her. She...she cared for him. It was the closest thing to what she wanted. She could be happy with this one if she tried. It would just take time and effort. She could do it. They'd be happy together, at least for a good while.

So why were her eyes prickling with tears? Why was she biting her lips together, even as her breathing was picking up?

_He_ was gone - the man she wanted. In effect, it was almost like having the Institute to themselves. There were no other telepaths. She could dream, this way, and not worry about being caught. So, as the man with her moved back up along her body, laying his own over hers, she turned her mind elsewhere. Her arms moved up to lightly embrace him as her body received him, and her mind drew her into another world - one where the man she wanted _could_ and _would_ be just what she needed him to be; her friend, teacher and mentor, but also her lover.

For that, she'd happily forgo the momentary bliss she found beneath the sheets forever.

There wouldn't be a need for it.

Her cheeks flushed a high, ripe red as her fantasy grew more and more vivid, more explicit and forbidden. She arched up to press against the body above her, dreaming of another all the while. Bright, dizzying tension was building in the base of her stomach, spreading out. The body above her moved more rapidly.

She dug her fingers into the waist of the man above her, wishing that he couldn't feel anything from it like the man in her heart wouldn't.

He buried his head into the crook of her neck, whispering panted words of adoration.

"Don't talk.." she breathed back, gasping.

"..._Jean_..."

"Just..."

Just what?

---

She jogged one foot up and down impatiently, impulsively as she sat in the kitchen in the semi-dark. The only like was provided from the hallway outside, spilling through the doorway to dimly illuminate the tiled floor, the white walls, the immaculate marble benches and the stainless steel fridge. A glass of milk sat beside her, rapidly dropping in temperature from hot to lukewarm. She knew that warm milk did nothing, medically speaking, for the body when it couldn't sleep because it was the mind that was the problem - the mind was too active. Warm milk was a placebo, a stand in, for a real solution.

Just like Scott.

She frowned in the gloom, standing and grabbing her milk as she went. Comparing her boyfriend with a beverage. How...idiotically poetic and banal.

The milk was tipped down the sink and the glass, still smeared with white, was staked in the dishwasher. Jean turned, then faltered. There was a figure in the doorway.

It was nothing to worry about, though. "What're you doin' up so late?"

Jean smiled slightly, tolerantly at the intruder, taking in through her adjusting eyes that the second girl was still in her clothes. "Isn't that _my_ line? What are _you_ doing up so late, Rogue?"

Even through the darkness, she could see the girl making a face. "What d'you mean? Ah'm always out this late."

True enough. "It's a Sunday night. You've got school tomorrow."

"And you've got university."

"I don't start until twelve."

"Oh." There was a pause, then the younger girl shrugged dismissively. She padded into the kitchen on leather-soled boots and sought out a glass of milk of her own.

Jean watched her pour it, feeling a silly, irrational connection with the girl for the first time. Because she was pouring a glass of milk to help her sleep? No...because she knew, as well, that warm milk did nothing for the sleepy body. She was looking for a placebo. She was compromising - she couldn't do anything else, so she'd do what she could. "Rogue..."

The glass of milk was set in the microwave, just as Jean had done with hers. "Mm?"

"Do you ever get the feeling that...that you're compromising?"

The younger girl turned to face her and leaned back against the counter, looking both curious and guarded. "What d'you mean?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," Jean replied, sounding distracted even to herself as she watched the glass of milk rotate slowly in the microwave. "I guess...I suppose I mean...I don't know."

Rogue continued to study her curiously for a moment, then smiled lopsidedly. "Ah guess Ah have," she said honestly, in a rare moment of openness. She paused for a moment, turning her attention to the milk in the microwave as well. The whirring machine dinged to a halt, and the younger girl retrieved her drink. "Y'know, Ah don't think Ah'll ever control my powers."

"...What's that got to do with...?"

The younger girl shrugged absently, sipping on her drink. "Bear with me here," she drawled, smiling over the rim of her glass. "For all that everyone tells me, Ah don't think Ah've got a hope. No one knows where to start on 'em, no one knows what could be wrong with me that _makes_ mah powers uncontrollable - it could be that there's too much power for someone as unused to it as me, or it could be like Scott; a physiological issue. Point is, it's not gonna happen for me. Now, ask me where Ah've been all night."

"...Where have you been all night?"

"D'you know who 'Pulse' is?"

"Should I?"

"Nope. Up until last month, Ah didn't know him either." Her milk gone, Rogue set the glass in the dishwashing rack as Jean had done, then levered herself up to sit on the kitchen bench. "He's this blond guy, kinda on the weedy side of thin, pretty cute...he's from Chicago, and he was supposed to be here for only a week, but he's stayin' on longer."

"Why?"

"Me." Rogue crossed her legs at the ankle and looked down at herself. "Ah shouldn't let him do it, really. But, see...the thing about Gus...that's his real name, 'Augustus'...the thing about him is that he can disable mutant powers."

"Really?"

Rogue smiled. "Yup. And, as far as Ah'm concerned, that's where his appeal starts and ends."

"Wait...what?"

The younger girl slid off of the kitchen bench and came around to stand right in front of Jean. "It's all about the physical stuff, to be honest. He's poured his heart an' soul into me, an' Ah know for sure 'cause he got me to use mah powers on him, so that Ah'd know...but all Ah can give back is what you see." She shrugged. "But he doesn't ask for more. He knows that Ah don't love him, but he's either compromisin' or holdin' out on the hope that one day Ah will. Ah know it's useless, ultimately, to go on like this, but Ah can't stop anymore. Ah'm compromisin' freedom for touch."

Jean blinked, fighting back shock. "That's...a lot to take on."

Rogue laughed lightly, though there wasn't much humor in her voice. "Yeah, well...Ah knew you wouldn't ask unless it was serious. Ah mean, we're not the sort who _talk_ to each other, are we? An' you're just one mental probe away from findin' out, anyhow." She shook her head at herself, then directed a lopsided though unusually sympathetic smile up at Jean. "You're feelin' compromised?"

"I...yes."

"Then good luck."

Jean nodded, understanding what that meant. "There's no way to get out of the situation once you're in it, is there?"

"Not one that doesn't take more willpower than _you_ have an' more callousness than even _Ah've_ got."

"We're...stuck, then?"

"Yup."

"But that's...that's not fair."

"Neither was draggin' another into our messes. But Ah bet you've gone an' done it too, haven't you?"

Jean bit her bottom lip harshly.

"Yeah. Ah thought so." Rogue turned to go, casting one last look of confused sympathy in her direction. "Look...Scott's a consistent guy - like Gus. They're two of a kind - you know, the good kind. The guys that girls wind up with, 'cause they're so dependable. They're never the guys that girls really want, but...hell, if marriages can be built between people who lie to themselves like that then Ah'm sure we two can keep on like this, at least for a while." She paused in the doorway, looking oddly serene with the light from the hallway washing over her, despite the fact that she was dressed up like an angel of darkness - much like any other day. "Compromise ain't so bad. It's better than nothin', right?"

"But how much is..._too_ much compromise, when it comes to love? When you love someone else and..." She bit down on her lip again.

Rogue's smile faded slowly. "Then...Ah don't know, Jean. That's a whole new ballpark to me. Ah've never been in love. But Ah have been compromised."

"That's bad enough. This is..."

"You'll come through it, Jean. You're that sort. Things just have a way for workin' themselves out, for girls like you." Rogue laughed lightly, though - again - there wasn't much humor in her voice. "They always do. See you in the mornin', maybe. Ah gotta get some sleep, an' Ah gotta do it before mah conscience sneaks up on me again. Don't wanna stay up all night, panickin', then fall asleep from sheer exhaustion in French again. Ah already got enough detention to last me a lifetime, thank you."

"...Right." Jean smiled slightly. "Right. Thanks, Rogue. I think."

"Mm. Ah'd say 'anytime', but...well, Ah really don't like to talk about this, personally."

"Me neither."

"Well, good. Let's just...let things work out, huh?"

"It...it's the only thing we really _can_ do, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately."

Jean sighed as Rogue slipped away into the passage beyond the kitchen. "It feels so...useless. _I_ feel useless. Why isn't there a clear resolution?"

If Rogue heard her, she had no answer.

---


End file.
